Elizabeth's office was silent, except for the rhythmic sound of the pen scratching on the paper. Light filtered through the velvet curtains, drawing golden lines across the carpet and the dark furniture.

In front of the desk, Damon stood motionless.

Elizabeth looked up from the report and observed him for a few seconds—long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable.

She rested her chin on her hand, evaluating him.

"Did the old man really put you to the test?" she asked in her usual cold, controlled voice.

Damon maintained a steady gaze. "Yes, madam. For six months."

She leaned forward slightly. "We'll see."

She rose slowly, the sound of her heels echoing on the stone floor. She walked around the desk until she stopped in front of him. Her gaze swept over him from his shoulders to his feet—meticulous, technical, like someone inspecting a new weapon.

"Posture… balance… controlled breathing." She murmured more to herself than to him. "Caerth wouldn't be disappointed."

Then, after a moment of silence, she added:

"Take off your shirt."

Damon hesitated for a brief moment, but obeyed. He pulled the fabric over his head and let it hang on his forearm.

Elizabeth remained motionless.

The body before her was no longer that of the young man who had asked for training months ago. The firm outline of his muscles, the fine scars scattered across his arms and the defined abdomen told a story of effort and pain.

For an instant, her usual coldness wavered. Her gaze lingered on the line of his chest, and she felt her face warm—almost imperceptibly.

"I understand." Her voice was lower than usual.

Damon remained silent, only breathing calmly, his chest rising and falling at a steady rhythm.

Elizabeth regained her composure and took a step to the side, crossing her arms. "The training worked. Caerth delivered on his promise."

She looked at him again, this time with a more analytical gaze than before.

"But I want to know how much you've learned to control that strength. Do you still let yourself be carried away by anger?"

"Not anymore," he replied. "I've learned to channel it."

"We'll see about that soon."

Elizabeth returned behind the desk, but before sitting down, she gave him one last look—brief, almost curious.

"Get dressed, Damon. I have another task for you."

The sound of fabric sliding against skin broke the silence of the office. Damon put his shirt back on, adjusting the collar and automatically brushing away the dust that still remained on the cuff. Elizabeth, standing behind the desk, watched him unhurriedly, her fingers drumming on a small wax seal.

When he finished, she spoke, without raising her voice:

"I want you to go to the Duchy of Arven."

Damon looked up, surprised. "Arven? The closest one?"

"Yes," she replied, straightening the papers in front of her again. "The Royal Guard Knights Academy is located there. That's where you'll go."

The silence that followed was short, but heavy. Damon frowned. "To enlist?"

Elizabeth raised her gaze, firm as a blade. "Exactly."

He remained motionless, trying to understand. "With all due respect, Madam… after six months of training with Caerth, I thought I would serve here, under your command."

"You will serve," she replied, twirling the seal between her fingers. "But not yet."

The answer was cold, calculated. Damon took a deep breath, feeling the air grow heavy in the room.

Elizabeth stood up and walked to the window. From above, the expanse of the Mirath fields could be seen—the wind moved the pine trees in green waves, and further on, the castle walls stood out against the pale sky.

"You've grown," she said, without turning around. "But you're still an empty name. Strength without title, sword without crest. In the world outside, that means nothing."

Damon kept his gaze fixed on her back. "You want me to become an official knight."

"I want the system to recognize you."

She turned around, and Elizabeth's piercing gaze hit him full force. "And I want you to prove, outside these walls, that everything Caerth taught you wasn't just about survival."

Damon crossed his arms, pondering. "I understand. But there's something I don't understand: why now?"

Elizabeth rested her hands on the table, the silver ring reflecting the light. "Because the Duchy and the Kingdom have changed, Damon. The knight training system has been reformed. It's no longer a simple military institution. It's a direct arm of the royal council—with its own legislation, oaths, and observers from the clergy. No warrior, however skilled, can wield the king's sword without passing through this sieve."

She paused. "And I want you to pass through it."

Damon took a deep breath. "So it's not just about training. It's politics."

Elizabeth stared at him in silence for a moment. Then, a slight smile curved her lips—the kind of smile that never reached her eyes. "Everything is politics, Damon."

He lowered his gaze, resigned, and simply replied, "When should I leave?"

"This afternoon. A horse is already waiting for you in the stables."

Damon nodded, but before he could take a step to leave, she stopped him.

"Wait."

He stopped, turning back to her.

Elizabeth opened a desk drawer and took out a small wooden case. The sound of the clasp echoed through the room when she opened it. Inside, rested a thin, dark metal bracelet, marked with small silver glyphs.

"Take this."

Damon immediately recognized the object. "The disguise bracelet."

"Yes," she replied. "The old one was weakened, and your… condition… must not be revealed in Arven."

Her gaze settled directly on his eyes, with meticulous coldness. "You understand why, don't you?"

Damon nodded slowly. "Because if they discover that I carry incubus blood, I won't be accepted. Neither as a man, nor as a knight."

"Correct," she said. "That duchy is controlled by families devoted to the Church of Sol. The mere suspicion would be enough for you to disappear before you even crossed the main gate."

The young man took the bracelet, feeling the subtle weight in his hand. The glyphs reacted to his touch, emitting a faint glow. He put it on his wrist, and the metal adjusted itself, sealing with a soft click.

For a brief moment, he felt the mana in his body stabilize—the black marks under his skin disappeared, the color of his eyes softened. The enchantment was complete.

Elizabeth watched him, impassive.

"It seems to work well."

Damon moved his wrist, testing the weight. "It works… but I don't like using it."

"It's not a matter of liking it," she said. "It's a matter of staying alive."

He nodded silently.

Elizabeth sat back down, and for a moment the air seemed to leave the room. "In the Duchy, keep a low profile. Avoid displays of power. Don't reveal your origins, or my connection to you."

"Not even the name Mirath?"

"Especially that name."

She looked at him seriously. "From now on, you are simply Damon from Mirath. Just another aspiring student among hundreds."

Damon maintained his composure, but his eyes betrayed his discomfort. "Understood."

Elizabeth leaned forward, her fingers intertwined on the table. "As for the academy—the system has changed. They've adopted a merit-based model. Three orders, each governed by exams, combat, and morality tests. Most fail before the second cycle. There are no privileges, no favoritism. You go in alone, you come out alone."

"And if I fail?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Then you are not worthy of bearing the title of Mirath."

The words cut through the air with the precision of a blow.

Damon held her gaze for a moment, but then lowered his eyes.

"I don't intend to fail."

"I hope not," said Elizabeth, leaning back in her chair. "Caerth believes you are ready. I'm not yet convinced."

He glanced at her. "And what would it take to convince you?"

"To see you survive something that I didn't plan."

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Damon took a deep breath, controlling the impulse to respond.

Elizabeth noticed, and a slight trace of satisfaction crossed her face. "You're learning to be silent when you should be. That's also part of strength."

He inclined his head in a restrained gesture of respect. "May I leave?"

She nodded. "You may. There's a messenger waiting in the courtyard with the documents and the letter of recommendation. The seal doesn't bear my name—it's from the Northern Archives, which will make it less suspicious."

Damon took a step towards the door, but hesitated before leaving. "Madam…"

Elizabeth looked up, slightly impatient. "Yes?"

"Why me? Why send me specifically, and not any of your other agents?"

She was silent for a moment, then answered in a low, almost reflective voice. "Because you're the only one who still believes he has something to prove."

Damon held her gaze for another moment. "Understood."

He turned and left, the sound of his boots echoing down the corridor until it faded away.

When the door closed, Elizabeth remained motionless.

The office fell silent once more, except for the faint whisper of the wind in the curtains.

She looked at the spot where Damon had been moments before and let out an almost imperceptible sigh.

"Caerth…" she murmured. "I hope you're right about him."

The quill resumed gliding across the paper, tracing precise lines of a new order.

The main courtyard of Mirath was covered in a thin mist when Damon emerged. The sun was trying to break through the clouds, but the cold still dominated the air. A black horse awaited him by the gate, saddled and ready for travel. Beside it, a messenger wearing the crest of the Northern Archive waited with a sealed scroll of parchment.

Damon took it, checking the seal without saying a word.

"Lord Damon," said the messenger, "the road to Arven has been recently patrolled. There is a risk of rain in the pass, but the outposts are secure."

"Understood," he replied, tucking the document into his cloak.

He mounted the horse with a fluid movement—the kind of gesture that Caerth had insisted he practice until it became instinct.

Before leaving, he looked one last time at the towers of Mirath, rising above the mist. For an instant, he saw Elizabeth's silhouette on the third-floor balcony. He didn't know if it was his imagination or not, but he had the impression that she was watching him—distant, motionless, as if silently weighing his future.

The wind blew, and he pulled the reins.

"Arven, then…" he murmured. "Let's see what the world has to teach."

The horse moved forward, and the mist gradually swallowed him, until only the sound of hooves fading down the road remained.

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